


Knocking Me Sideways

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Pacify [14]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Biting, F/M, Gags, Masturbation, Play Fighting, Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering, playful pretense at sorta dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day after the events of "Come From Way Above", there is some discussion. A couple of days after that... Well, it turns out surrender is twice as sweet when it comes after a hell of a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knocking Me Sideways

**Author's Note:**

> You know, now and then I wonder why I didn't just make this a single multi-chapter fic, but OH WELL TOO LATE NOW. 
> 
> Anyway, this is something of a continuation of an exploration of a Thing. I think after a long run of working through deepening submission, I like the idea of some active resistance.
> 
> A further semi-related note: a couple people have requested/suggested/expressed interest in a look at what would happen if Beth was finally pushed into a place where she had to safeword. I _do_ want to do that. It's coming down the line. It just might be a bit, because I want to be extremely careful in how I do it.
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy this.

So things shift again.

She's getting used to the idea of shifts. Maybe once she had the idea that things would proceed steadily and in a singular direction, because it felt like a passage from one country to another, from that _before_ she always thinks of now to that _after_ in which she seems to be living.

But now she understands differently.

They confer. Take stock. Quietly, over lunch. She still hurts. Horizontal bruise across her middle, as she thought, low and most severe at her hipbones. The next morning he was looking at it, running a finger over it, and he didn't look alarmed but he _did_ look as if he was working through something. Considering.

Her wrist, bruised as well. That's nothing new. The base of her throat. Neither of these things is alarming by now. But how she got them seems like it's worth some thought and attention.

She struggled and she tried to run. And he didn't even let her get to the door. Slammed her against the table, wrenched her arm up behind her back, called her a _little bitch._ This isn't careful, considered, affectionate delivery of pain. This isn't the kind of gentleness he keeps in play even when he ties her down and hits her, even when he uses knives on her, even when he brings her to tears.

This is something else. And they still aren't _amazing_ at talking in explicit terms about this, though they're a lot better now because they both feel that it's pretty important to make sure they're on the same page about these things, but it's almost like it used to be, where he's unsure of himself and why he did what he did, why he _liked_ it so much, and he actually needs more reassurance than he has in a while. He needs to know if there's anything she didn't like. Anything that frightened her. He needs to know she's okay.

It doesn't take her very long to work out that this is because he badly wants to do it again.

It's a good thing she does too.

~

They have to wait until they’re alone in the house for this. Have to wait until they know they will be for a good couple of hours at least. They've had to do that before, but this time it really is necessary.

They need some room to spread out.

She makes a single desperate dash for the front door, laughter caught in her throat. He lets her almost get there, lets her hand come within less than a foot of the knob - not that she would have used it - and then he seizes her with one arm around her middle and one around her chest, hauls her off her feet and back against him. She struggles, panting with the effort, but she gains no ground and he drags her into the living room, and against the nape of her neck she can feel his lips pulling into a smile. She kicks, back at him and forward at nothing, trying to free herself, and she nearly upends a side table and starts giggling, and that smile widens.

He shifts his grip to both of her arms, jerking them backward by the elbows. Carefully restrained violence, but it hurts and she knows he _means_ for it to hurt, and she feels how strong he is, knows it could be so much worse, and lets loose a little cry.

And abruptly he lets her go.

She doesn't go for the door this time. That's been done, and maybe she just doesn't want him to have to work that hard. She heads for the couch, and actually tosses him a grin over her shoulder as she goes - and of course he's already coming for her, and she barely makes it past the thing before he has her again and he's shoving her down onto it, one hand at the back of her neck, pushing her against the cushions as his hand forces its way under her shirt and closes hard over her breast. She shoves herself back against him, braced up on her knees, and when he meets her with his hips and she feels his cock through too many layers of fabric, a pulse of heat slams so hard into her cunt that it aches.

He could take her right here. Hold her down, yank off her jeans, slap her legs apart and take her. She might not even fight him, she wants him so bad - biting back a heavy moan when he swipes his thumb across her nipple through her bra, rolling her ass against him, slipping half into a rhythm. But she's just teasing, that's all, because maybe she doesn't want him to work that hard, but he's still going to fucking _work_.

She moans again, shivers - and twists her body sharply to the left, breaking free, stumbling to her feet and running again.

 _God_ , please let them not break anything. She can see Rick coming back to chairs tipped over, books spilled across the floor, smashed picture frames and broken lamps, and there's another one of those faintly hysterical giggles, and then he has her just as she makes it to the hall, hand curling around her throat and slamming her sideways into the wall.

It knocks the breath out of her, and the grip on her throat doesn't allow her to get it back. She wriggles, claws at him, but he holds on, face close to hers, and in his eyes is that same dark gleam she saw in the shed. Gleam like he's sighted prey. Like he's cornered her. Like he means to take her down _hard_.

Because he has, and he does.

His grip relaxes just enough for her to get her breath, half coughing, but he's crowding her back against the wall, pinning her with his body, and she knows what she knew when they started doing this: the only way she gets away from him is if he lets her. This is easy for him. He's gentle with her, he's careful, and she knows the idea of her genuinely being hurt is horrifying to him, something out of a nightmare both of them have already lived, but it would be easy - so, so easy - for him to break her.

She's strong, she wouldn't necessarily go easily, but he could still hurt her, still _kill_ her with his bare hands and hardly break a sweat.

And it's that he doesn't hurt her, that he never, ever would, that makes this so wonderful.

He pushes a knee between her legs, cock a rigid line against her hip, and when he kisses her it's all teeth, practically biting her mouth open. She whimpers, everything already a confusion of sensations, and she gropes for his arms and shoulders but he pulls back and slaps her hands away.

"Daryl..." Actually weakening now, and she doesn't _want_ to, not yet, not so soon, but being pinned like that woke up some deep instincts in her - instincts he's further shaped by months of what amounts to training, even if neither of them thought about it that way at the time - and suddenly what she wants to do is drop to her knees and beg for his cock. In her mouth. In her cunt. Her hand. _Anything._

"What? The fuck you want?" Same _tone_ as the shed, and she whimpers again, catching her swollen lip between her own teeth, feeling a prickle of that fear-that-isn't-fear. She's heard him angry and this isn't angry, but there's something almost mocking, almost _cruel_ about it, and before he talked to her that way she wouldn't have known it was in him.

Real cruelty almost certainly isn't. But this is.

"Huh?" His hand tightens on her neck and he presses her harder against the wall, all that latent power in his arm. "C'mon. Tell me." Leans in then, all heat, teeth just brushing her earlobe. She asked for this, oh, she did. "You little _slut_ , tell me what the fuck you want."

She goes completely limp at that. Limp and hot and then hot and _shaking_ , her hips rocking forward, needing pressure, friction, anything, and he's already moving his knee out of the way leaving her high and...

Not dry. At all.

She doesn't even know how to say what she wants. That word _did_ something to her, just like she thought it might, and while she's felt something approaching this before at the moments he makes her completely insane with wanting him, now she feels barely human - she's the blood pulsing just beneath her skin and her panting breaths and most of all she's the hot, wet, throbbing _ache_ in her cunt, and that ache isn't about needing to come.

It's about being empty and wanting to be _filled_ with him.

What she wants isn't words. She wants force and power, she wants the feeling of being thrown and dragged and held down, wrenched open, the feeling of being invaded, flooded, pounded into, every part of him inside her.

She _needs._

 _Daryl,_ she mouths, but then she doesn't say anything else. She lunges forward, muscles tight and exploding into motion, shoving him back with all her strength. A surprised exhale punches out of him, and maybe he's intentionally letting her go or maybe that surprise actually gave her enough of an edge, but she slips free of him, stumbles, almost falls against the wall, then finds her feet again and runs, his fingertips just grazing her shoulder as she darts out of his reach.

That pseudo-fear is bright and quivering in her now, singing in her head, almost a literally audible thing. Her palms are sweaty, her stomach in knots, and she's not actually terrified of him but God, this _feels_ like terror, and she's aware of him behind her, oncoming and relentless, and she can't see him but she can _feel_ him, and he feels like a huge, dark, rushing thing.

He feels like a fucking force of nature.

She almost makes it to the stairs before he takes her down.

She doesn't go down hard. Not too hard. Everything is a blur of light and sound and fight-or-flight, but she can sense how he finds a way to catch her even as he pounces on her, control her fall, hold her against him so she lands with little actual pain. But once again the breath is knocked out of her and she's dazed, gasping as he grasps her by the hips and rolls her onto her back. She blinks and it's strangely hard to focus, but she sees him looming over her, his face only partially visible, that hungry cruelty still in his eyes.

She tries to turn over, tries to grab for the base of the bannister, tries to drag herself free. His hands on her wrists are like the jaws of a trap as he yanks them down and to the side, pinning them against the floor. Her legs, she could kick - but he's pinning those too, pinning them with his, and she's immobile beneath him.

Staring up, heaving breath. The terror is a brilliant vibrating thread wrapped around her spine.

He's smiling.

"Answer my fuckin' question."

She doesn't know what he means. _Question?_ She takes a breath, and her confusion must show on her face because he leans further down, and he squeezes her wrists so hard she's pretty sure she feels bones grinding together, his fingers printing bands of pain into her skin.

"Tell me what you want."

She shakes her head, moans. She doesn't know. Can't he tell, looking at her? Isn't it obvious? What she wants, what she _is?_ But of course that's not why he's asking, and she knows it, and she's more than a little curious about what he'll do if she doesn't answer him at all.

So she stares speechlessly up at him, letting all her need and all her fear rush into her face, and everything in him changes.

It's like a mask slipping off. Or something escaped from him being pulled back in and leashed. Just for a second. He doesn't even need to ask, doesn't need to move. It's all there in front of her, what he wants to know. Has to know.

_Remember?_

She swallows, nods, and the surge of love she feels almost pulls a sob out of her.

So the leash comes off and he wraps one hand around both of her wrists, holds them over her head, and starts to tear her pants off.

Tearing is really the only word. He pulls so hard the waistband cuts into her skin and she hears a button pop free and roll away, the grating protest of her zipper. Down her hips, again violently enough to hurt, and when his hand forces its way between her thighs she _does_ sob, frightened and wanting him and deliriously happy in a way that's completely inexplicable.

"Why won't you fuckin' say it? 's not like I can't tell." He slides a finger into her and lets out a pleased sound, almost a sigh, pulls it back and fucks it into her again. "See? You got any idea how fuckin' _wet_ you are?"

His finger withdraws and she knows what's coming next, knows and loves it, and when he lifts his hand to her lips her mouth is already open. The first time he did this she loved it, and there are all kinds of reasons for it, not least how much she knows he loves to do it, but it's also that _she likes how she tastes,_ and when she first realized that, so long ago now, it felt so...

She finally figured out she wanted to be called the word for how it made her feel.

She sucks at his finger, pulls it into her mouth with her teeth and curls her tongue around it, and he laughs, and when she looks up at him again the hunger is still there but the cruelty has slipped away.

"Toldja," he murmurs, pulls his hand free and leans in and bites at her jaw. "God, you're such a _slut_ for me."

Dimly, under the sweet roaring in her head as he closes his teeth on her throat and fucks two fingers into her, she thinks it sounds as though he likes saying it just as much as she likes hearing it.

But then he's gone again, and she's empty and gasping, almost pleading, her legs briefly free as he drags her jeans and panties the rest of the way down her thighs and tosses them aside. And he doesn't even have to hold her legs down anymore; she's spreading them wide, lifting her hips, _presenting_ herself to him with her head thrown back, and when she catches a glimpse of his face he looks almost awed.

And then she does find some words. She throws them together in an order that seems to work, gasps them out in a shaking, panicked little burst.

"I want it. Daryl... Daryl, God, I want it, I want it so _bad_."

She's told him she wants his cock, that she wants him to fuck her, that she wants him any number of ways. But she doesn't think she's ever sounded like this. The words haven't _felt_ like this. Like she'll cry if she doesn't get what she needs. _It._

So suddenly he's not there at all. His hands, his body... He's just gone.

She pushes herself up on tingling hands, so bewildered she's almost dizzy. He's there in front of her, rocked back on his knees, just _looking_ at her with his head slightly cocked and this odd little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

" _Daryl_..." It comes out in a whine. She feels petulant. She told him, she _told_ him, and he's just letting her _go?_ She pushes herself up further, legs still spread and her shirt rucked up around her chest, and without thinking she reaches for him. "What're you-"

"Show me."

She stares at him, uncomprehending. His hand is moving down to his fly, pulling it open, and she groans heavily as she realizes what he's doing, as he shifts enough to free his cock and strokes down and up its length, his eyes half closing with obvious pleasure. "You want it that bad, you show me. Show me how much."

For a few seconds she's at a loss, watching the slow motion of his hand, gaze flicking back up to his face; he's done this before, teased her and denied her, but not like _this_ and she's not sure what the fuck he could possibly _want._

Then... She's a roiling mass of frustrated, half frantic need, and she tears her shirt off, rips off her bra, and drops back naked on the floor surrounded by the tangle of her clothing, and she does to herself what he's refusing to do to her.

She's never done anything like this. She grabs at herself, takes her breasts in her hands and squeezes, arches her back and twists at her nipples, hard enough to send little pinpricks of pain shooting down into her cunt. She rolls herself up in waves like he's still above her, almost convulsing, lifting her legs, thrusting her fingers into her mouth and then into her cunt. She's not sure she's _ever_ been this wet, wonders if they'll have to wipe up the floor, thinks _at least it's wood,_ and a bark of laughter escapes her as she fucks herself, fucks herself as hard as she can, one hand clamped down on her breast again and her mouth as wide as if she's begging for his cock.

She is. That's exactly what she's doing.

She hears him, a soft little " _Fuck,_ " and she laughs again, chorus with the wet sounds of her fingers pumping in and out of herself, and she's Beth Greene and nothing can kill her and yes, yes, she is a fucking _slut._

When he takes her, it's so fast and so hard she doesn't even understand what's happening until he's stuffing her panties into her mouth. And it's like a signal and she struggles with everything she has left, writhing underneath him as he slams into her, screaming muffled, animal sounds. He has her wrists again, so hard over her head that her arms hurt, and he curls his other hand into her hair and yanks, twists her head back and to the side, little needles of bright pain.

Part of her wants to go still and just feel him, feel him filling her up over and over, massive over her and inside her and somehow all around her, but she can't. Something in her won't let her. She's like something mindless and wild, and she can no longer even tell the difference between fighting him and fucking him, and it doesn't matter.

And then he's hissing in her ear. Hissing sharp and almost angry, except he isn't angry at all; he's _loving_ this. Words tumbling out of him, pounding into her like his body. "You _do_ want it, you know you do. You _know_ you do, fuckin' _look_ at you, fuckin' bitch in heat, can't get enough of it. Can you?" Harder, so hard she wonders if he's bruising her, and that thing that wouldn't let her stop fighting backs down all at once, and she's weak under him, loose and helpless. He's fucking her into the floor and all she can do is take it, shuddering with a torrent of moans that might as well be sobs, and maybe she's a slut, maybe she wants it, but he's a _beast._

And he took her down.

It doesn't take long. He comes with a hard wrench and a cry, arching, head thrown back and his features stretched into something that looks almost like rage. He freezes like that and she stares at him, eyes wide, and if she could she would be smiling.

Then it's gone and he's braced over her, breathing hard, head hanging between his shoulders.

She watches him in silence. He's still in her and everything hurts, but she doesn't move. Doesn't even try to. Doesn't until he does, releasing her wrists and pushing himself up, pulling out of her. She stirs but doesn't push herself up. She's not sure she can. She stares up at the ceiling, blinking slowly, gradually aware of things.

Her panties are still stuffed into her mouth, which seems sort of funny now. She could pull them out, maybe.

She doesn't.

She hasn't come. She realizes she doesn't really care about that.

His hands on her face, turning her head. Once again he's looming over her, but that thread of terror is unwound and gone. He cups her jaw, tugs her panties free, lets out a quiet laugh and bends closer to her.

"Y'alright?"

Slowly, she nods. Everything is slow, everything in her. He didn't tie her up. He didn't hit her. He didn't do any of the things he usually does to make her feel like this. Yet he got her here anyway. She feels sore, exhausted, deeply peaceful. Smoothed out, all her edges gone.

Strange.

"Alright. C'mere." She still can't move all that well, but he slides an arm under her and pulls her up and against him and half into his lap, combing a hand gently through her hair in the way that always soothes her, if she even needs soothing. "Christ," he breathes, and she nods again, smiling loosely, one hand curled over his thigh. He takes her other and their fingers thread easily together like they always have. Always will.

"Want me to get you to bed?"

 _Minute,_ she's pretty sure she manages to say, and she closes her eyes. So he keeps stroking her hair, and again he feels so big and all around her, a beast who took her down, and those hands that could break her are so soft on her.

Another shift. Okay.

So far she approves of the direction.


End file.
